Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I sweep my flashlight slowly over the statue. “Legend says she weeps green at midnight. If you whisper your true love’s name in her ear, she whispers your truest fear. Odd tradeoff, isn’t it? Love for fear.”
I pause and try to line up the thoughts racing through my head. Love. Fear. Maybe not such an odd pairing after all.
“On second thought.” I step in front of the camera, hands thoughtfully shoved into my coat pockets. “Thing is, they’re not so opposite. Fear narrows your vision—makes you hyperaware of danger. Love blows it wide open—suddenly you see beauty, possibility, reasons to risk everything.” I huff out a laugh. “Both bypass logic. Fear can have you jumping at shadows. Love can make you do things you swore you’d never do.”
My gaze drifts to the bronze streaks down her cheeks.
“Love and fear—they’re hardwired into us. Survival code.” I hold up my left hand. “Fear’s our instinct for self-preservation.” Then my right. “Love ensures we care for our offspring—”
The words stall on my tongue. Not all parents are capable of love. And yet we still survive.
I clear my throat. “In theory, anyway. Both emotions drive us. Fear pushes us to avoid pain and danger. Love—or maybe lust—pulls us toward connection.”
My brow furrows as I line up the next thought. “Every choice we make, every action, traces back to one or the other. Toward what we love. Away from what we fear.”
I glance at the statue again. “Two people can face the same situation—fear sharpens one’s vision, love expands the other’s. Both can be irrational, bypassing logic. Fear sparks phobias of harmless things.” I huff another laugh. “And love? Love makes us reckless.”
My eyes fix on the Widow’s tear-streaked face.
“Maybe that’s her warning. That love and fear are two sides of the same curse.”
I ease closer. A hard chill wraps my wrists in freezing cuffs. An overwhelming sense of grief and fear encases me. My mouth does that penny thing again. Metallic. The taste of an old coin pressed to my tongue. Yuck.
“Note to self,” I murmur, “check run-off patterns. See if the green forms after heavy rain. Wind exposure on this hill could push moisture across the face in streaks. Add local history deep dive—any mills, tanneries, or other charming nineteenth-century polluters leaving their love notes in the soil?”
I reach out with my free hand and hover my fingers a breath above the statue’s cheek. The lines on her face seem to deepen. Up close, she doesn’t look sad. She looks…angry? For a second, her hollow eyes seem to find me—cold, unblinking, and somehow staring straight into my soul. The skin on my knuckles tightens. Tiny prickles race over my arms, raising each little hair.
Static. The air is dry. It’s just static. Probably.
My flashlight flickers, then brightens.
Above me, a crow lets out a cranky squawk. Then another, closer. Perfect. I couldn’t ask for better sound effects.
“Hello there, gentlemen. Always nice to see you.” I tip my head back, aiming for a jaunty tone. “No need to heckle the talent.”
Wings swish above me but it’s impossible to see anything in the foggy darkness.
Silence descends. Not even the chirp of a cricket.
The fog ahead of me shifts. Not its usual slide and billow. No, this movement appears to have a…shape? A shoulder. A flank. The suggestion of something big turning between the mausoleums. Leather creaks. Metal kisses metal, a tiny chime of tack rings on a buckle. A hoof finds ground. The scents of ozone and sulfur fill the air.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
“Okay,” I whisper on a shaky breath. “Horses exist. People ride them. Probably a late-night carriage thing for tourists. Or maybe the caretakers make their rounds on horseback. This is fine. Totally normal. Everything’s fine.”
I swing the flashlight around wildly. The beam cuts through nothing.
No horse.
Nothing.
Another thud, closer now. A faint rhythm travels through my soles. Not quite a stomp. More like a patient step. One. Then another. The slow patience of something aware it has me cornered.
I angle the mic toward the moving fog. It hisses, then spits a burst of static. My hand strays toward the pocket where I stashed the iron nail. No. That would be admitting the nail might have a purpose. Instead, I quickly gather my stuff, grip my bag tight, and step back.
“Widow,” I say to the statue, because talking gives me control of the situation. “If this is, uh, your idea of giving the tourists a thrill, you got me. Ten out of ten, will totally recommend—now please shut it down.”
A shadow detaches from the fog two rows over. Taller than a man. Narrower. The outline seems wrong, like a cutout laid over the world that didn’t quite translate. Where a head should be, the top blurs into nothing.
A hand clamps around my wrist.